


Epitaph For a Pest

by rainbowstrlght



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-05
Updated: 2012-03-05
Packaged: 2017-11-01 08:36:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/354459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowstrlght/pseuds/rainbowstrlght
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ben doesn't want to admit it, but being bothered perhaps isn't as bad as he claims it to be. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>(College AU, written for the bingo square "mutant" for <a href="http://au-bingo.livejournal.com/">au_bingo</a>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epitaph For a Pest

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'ed, not brit-picked, not even using awesome indie song lyrics for a title. Also inspired by a bug that actually menaced me this weekend - thank you, bug-a-boo, sorry I killed you.

 

 

 

The bug had landed precariously close to his writing desk, resting on the curtain that blocked the street from his view. Ben liked to pretend there was a forest out there—it didn’t help when strange, brown bugs landed on it, shifting the fabric to expose the reality of a dirty and busy street.

“ _Fuck._ ” The word slipped from his mouth. He had been typing—something long and important, a stream of consciousness for class, maybe—when the insect wings had buzzed by his ear, scaring the hell out of him.

He took the nearest book and smacked the window—missed. He smacked again and again until the bastard crawled across the cheap, student desk, limbs twitching in death throes. It was large and brown and had wings, and the head was looking menacingly at him.

_Whack, whack, whack_ —bloody hell. It was dead, but damn if Ben didn’t _smell_ death.

“God.” He took the edge of junk mail to scrape the insect bastard off wood and into a bin, far from his desk. Yet— _damn it all to_ _hell_. The smell permeated every sense, earthy and dank, filling his space and crowding him out until Ben retreated to the other end of his single, a hand over his nose.

He sighed with his back to the door, wondering when the stench would pass. He didn’t know bugs could _do_ that—but then, he was new here, another transferred university student who knew fuck-all how America worked, much less its insects.

Ben tip-toed to the window, opening it a crack. It was cold outside, but he wasn’t going to die from it. When he got back from the common room—not preferable to the library, but where else would he be able to type his assignment at three o’clock in the morning?—hopefully the smell would’ve dissipated.

Ben held his breath as he unplugged the laptop, re-reading the last few words as he gathered his things.

_His lips were bruised and red like cherries, his eyes half-mast as he got lost in our song._

Ben rolled his eyes— _really_. Such dribble. But then, he was trying to conjure genius on a late Tuesday night—er, Wednesday morning.

He left his dorm in his sweats, not caring who he met in the corridors at this time of night.

***

He probably should’ve cared, though. At least ran a hand through his mope of fair hair, unruly curls that ran amuck on a good day, chaotic on the bad.

At 3:23am on a Tuesday night, they had gone beyond chaotic—unfortunately in the presence of company.

Ben had entered the common room in sweats and a gray university hoodie, laptop held preciously in one hand, AC adaptor and cords dangling from the other. He might have slippers on—those weird moccasins his mum had given him, the kind with rubber soles that technically made them acceptable as shoes, but not really. Ben had never bothered to throw them out.

And yet—they were ratty, just like the rest of him, in the company of the last person he wanted to see right now.

Tom Hardy had his bare feet against the coffee table, biology textbook perched on angled knees as he slouched in an oversized chair, ignoring the world. Earbuds were probably present—ah, there they were—a white cord dangling down his neck, his eyes focused on the text in front of him.

Ben tended to notice too many details, soaking them into a constantly running internal narrative. He also noticed Tom’s toes curling around the wooden edge of the coffee table, right next to a plastic Starbucks container, empty except for melted ice. Papers were crumpled up next to it, highlighters and pens resting against them.

He could retreat now. Ben had intended to use the coffee table to prop his laptop, anyhow. Perhaps he could just lean against a wall somewhere and—

“ _Hey_.”

Ben fought an internal groan, turning back around to face the slouched figure with a pained nonchalance. “Yes?”

The dark blue eyes were mischievous—more bad news. They had been the devil to Ben all week, really since the beginning of the semester, when he had unfortunately ran into Tom on an empty stairwell. For some reason, the man could not resist bothering Ben—cheekily poking his head into all of his business, bumping into him several times a day. Perhaps because they were both transfers, both British. Perhaps because they were both outsiders, struggling to fit in.

Actually, Ben was content to remain on the sidelines, as long as everyone left him the hell alone.

“You tend to wander the halls at 3am, or did you have something else in mind?”

_Arse_. The smile was alluring now, more than Ben would like to admit—friendly and smirking at the same time. How the hell did he manage _that_?

“I won’t disturb you,” Ben said smoothly—retreating out of earshot before the bastard could insist that Ben stay, that Ben could continue writing _bruised and red like cherries_  with the inspiration near him, infuriating him by mere presence.

The cold stairwell it was, then.

***

People still partied during the weekdays— _strange_. They were at an Ivy League university, quite difficult to get into, and yet people were willing to throw it all away for a bit of fun.

Not that Ben didn’t have his bit of fun—he just usually had it on the Internet, or deep in a book, eyes glued and unable to resist turning another page, reading further.

Or writing, most of the time. Sometimes not even for class. A stupid novel about monsters and humans, and how the monster was truly within the human soul, not necessarily visible on the outside—not even necessarily evil, just often misunderstood.  A savage beauty that was an allegory for secrets, something all humans had. Typical literary tripe—but at least when it kept him up ‘til the wee hours of morning, he didn’t have a hangover to nurse on the way to class.

_Breathing hard, Damian groaned as my lips mouthed his collarbone, trailing further below to savour sweat-and-rain mixed skin—_

Ben saved the file, then closed out the story from Word. He actually had to write something he could turn in, a personal essay for Creative Non-Fic. An elective Ben had chosen willingly to stretch his artistic muscle, although it had become tedious and uncomfortable at times. He had written about his genealogy, his childhood, and now he had to turn in something about his surroundings and make it sound interesting— _excellent_.

The laptop was balanced on his knees at an odd angle, due to stretching its cords as far as it could go for an outlet behind a potted palm. Ben sat on the last step, straightening his back, trying to get comfortable.

He stared at the blank doc, trying to summon something useful—a line, a hook, _anything_. Any sentence that could get him going, that would just get this bloody assignment _done_.

Except buzzing clipped his ear again, and Ben almost dropped the laptop.

“ _Fuck!_ ” The word echoed as hands whipped around his head, trying to figure out where the bastard went. Ben couldn’t deal with this—the creatures were _stalking_ him. Large brown insects were practically infatuated with his person, for whatever reason. The one in his room hadn’t been the first, and Ben feared this new one wouldn’t be the last. He had never seen such buggers before—winged and dive-bombing, merciless in disrespecting boundaries.

Ben set his computer to the side, sliding off a shoe in preparation to strike, eyes skating across the floor for any sign of it. He’d probably create a stink here too, and then Ben would have to give up on writing entirely. The university had a pest problem—perhaps his teacher would know exactly what he meant.

“See something?”

Oh—oh _wonderful_. Just what Ben needed.

“None of your concern.”

But Tom came into view anyway, stepping around his laptop and glancing around at the floor, trying to see what Ben was glaring at. However, Tom looked wholly unconcerned, a whole new level of _irritating_.

“Perhaps if you leave the poor thing alone—“

“ _No_.” It was harsher than Ben intended, especially since Ben has slipped back on his shoe, more concerned with protecting his laptop. “Damn things are all over the place.”

The consequence of rescuing the laptop meant that Tom sat next to him, dark eyes turned towards him, peering curiously. Ben couldn’t take it, leaning far enough away for head to touch the stairwell wall.

“Everywhere?” Tom glanced around them, shrugging casually. “Haven’t seen a lot of anything.” Then he amended, “Well—spiders. Long-legged things. But that’s natural.”

Ben let out a huff, eyes glued to the Word doc in avoidance. “Good for you.”

“Maybe they’re just fond of _you_.”

Ben gritted his teeth. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

He hated feeling like this— _acting_ like this. He was really not this moody, normally. Back home he got along with just about everyone, his parents well-off in business and connections. He could make conversation, be sociable. He usually chose not to, willingly, but he was never this rude on purpose. Ben was normally considered kind and easy-going—friendly, despite being the quiet sort.

Tom Hardy just brought that out in him—or really, it was the insects. “I can’t stand bugs.”

“What did they ever do to you?”

“Hell, I don’t know— _dive_ at my head? Stink up my room? Land on my desk, my computer, my bag—“

“Perhaps they just love you.”

Ben whipped his head at Tom, restraining the urge to throttle the man, especially considering the amused grin on his face. But Tom nudged Ben’s thigh in good humor, saying softly, “ _Relax_. I’ll never spread that rumor. You know, about your interspecies dating.”

Ben rolled his eyes— _really_. This was not amusing in the slightest.

But Tom kept on going. “Besides, admirers are nice. Makes you feel wanted.”

“Would rather be _unwanted_ , thank you.” But Ben straightened just a tad, enough to notice how close Tom was sitting next to him, knees sometimes whispering in touch.

That was the worst part, in being bothered by Tom. Because maybe it wasn’t really “bothering” if Ben happened to like his face—rough and bullyish as it was, shadow of stubble on his chin, hair cropped short. Maybe it wasn’t “infuriating” if Ben’s mind sometimes hummed after their sparring, delighted at the witty things Tom would sometimes say. The unexpected twist of phrase— _interspecies dating_.

Really, the man was an exasperating anomaly, the type of person that usually never hovered around a person like Ben.

“Now darling, don’t say that.”

Ben raised an eyebrow— _darling_? That was a new one. But _honey, sugar, pigeon_ had also followed him these past few weeks. It was really too much, especially when followed by the dreaded _Benny_ or _Cumbermuffins_.

“I assure you, I am no one’s _darling_.” And Ben had said that with perhaps too much venom, when really he hadn’t minded _that_ much.

Tom’s gaze went to the floor, the soft smile not letting up. “Suit yourself.”

Was it disappointment Ben felt, as he watched Tom stand up and proceed down the stairwell? He would never admit it, not by a longshot. He would write something on this Word doc to stifle it, to try to cover it up— _The cold, vacant stairwell was stuffy, clouded by intensity of what had just happened_.

“Ben?’

It was so soft and unobtrusive, that Ben looked up with a distracted _hmm?,_ almost forgetting that the distraction was once again distracting.

“Do you really not like bugs?”

What a strange look—distant, soft. Concern leaking through in the worrying of bottom lip, as Tom’s hand absently traced the gray stairwell wall beside him. He looked uncertain and anxious for a change, entirely unlike him.

Ben took it all in, almost forgetting the question in the midst of such oddness. “Not if they can’t respect boundaries. I’ll—well, if they don’t bother me, I won’t bother them.” Entirely honest, although Ben would’ve added _they can stay outside_ to that statement.

But it seemed enough for Tom, whose cockiness reappeared like a mask—immediately blanketing him with a charming smile, which gave Ben a flirty look. “Fair enough.”

And he was out of sight, bouncing down the stairwell before Ben could observe further, could pinpoint _when_ the mask had slipped in the first place—how different that was to Tom normally, to the Tom that usually invaded his space.

He needed to see him again. The questions were burning, and maybe with just one more look he could figure out when—

Ben stopped mid-flight, watching as Tom stood before the open exit doors at the bottom of the stairs, head tilted towards the night. The heavy doors had been propped open, framing Tom’s body poetically against darkness.

Why did the world feel so empty, suddenly? Like the air was sucked from Ben’s lungs. Tom was about to walk through those doors, and Ben had the anxious feeling he’d never see him again—would never get to see that annoying smirk, those playful eyes.

_Silly_. Their dorms were on the same floor. Surely they’d—

Words died on Ben’s tongue as the insects landed on Tom’s shoulders. One, two, three—maybe five at the most, all still large and brown and menacing. Tom turned up his palm, fluttering wings landing on the tip of a finger—now six. Tom turned his head to the side, lips parted as they whispered _issssssssp,_ soft as a chime.

What was he seeing? It captured all of Ben’s attention, the gentleness that Tom exuded towards the pests. Maybe Tom was fond of them—must be fond of them, considering the way they crawled in and out of shirt hems, trailing the pale skin of his neck. Now there were a dozen, some crawling along his jaw.

Ben swallowed bile as Tom did leave—strode out into the night, taking the insects with him, taking all of the air from the stairwell. Perhaps that was why Ben couldn’t breathe, couldn’t utter a sound, too shocked by the empty doorway which had held such strange and exotic things moments before.  

He turned around and rubbed his chest, trying to ease a phantom pain. It felt like someone just nailed into his chest, boarded up his heart to prevent him from seeing clearly, from feeling accurately the world he was currently in.

Ben sat down harshly on the third step, taking his laptop onto his knees, re-reading the first line of his doc— _The cold, vacant stairwell was stuffy, clouded by intensity of what had just happened_.

When Ben looked up, one of the damned insects had reappeared from behind the potted palm, watching him from the far end of the stairwell.

 


End file.
